A Tuneless Symphony
by Etimire T
Summary: Sherlock is investigating several murder sites, but all of the bodies are missing and the evidence seems to say that the victim isn't staying dead for long!


Sherlock thought of himself as a realistic person. He didn't divulge in delusion, actually quite the opposite. Throughout his life, Sherlock spent his time sharpening his picture of reality until he could get to the raw facts. So being in his current situation was not only disgruntling, it felt down-right _wrong_.

It started out yesterday morning. Sherlock was in his robe, as usual, staring at the ceiling at the height of boredom when he heard steps rushing up the staircase.

John, and Lestrade, if he wasn't mistaken. And Sherlock didn't make mistakes.

"John? I told you to get me a pen." Sherlock called when the door opened and shut. He didn't bother to look away from the not-very-intriguing patterns on the ceiling.

"You did? When?" John asked. He didn't bother to take his coat off. They would be going out soon.

"I dunno. Three hours ago?"

Lestrade was standing behind John and now he pushed forward. "Get dressed, Sherlock. We've got a problem."

"Do you?" Sherlock stood up and poured himself a cup of tea. His hair was mussed up like a nest of black feathers and his face had the color of a man who never put a finger into sunlight. "Obviously an important one, seeing that you came yourself, Lestrade." Finally Sherlock turned to look at the two men. Lestrade's eyes were dark, carrying the baggage of unslept hours. _A long night at work_. And a crimson clay clung to the top of his left shoe. _Mud. Must have rained last night. Mud that color only found in forest._

_Must be a murder… in the forest. Neat, sort of creepy. Like that._

_No. John doesn't look angry. Possible murder? Baffling mystery? Probably not… for me, that is._

"I'll take the case." Sherlock started, walking away. _Not like I've got anything better to do…_

Lestrade blinked. "You don't even know what it's about!" He glanced at John. "Where's he-?"

"Clothes," John answered.

"Oh. Right."

~(%)~

Sherlock spent the whole day running through the forest, continually inspecting new discoveries. Patches of red, enough blood to kill several men, were appearing randomly throughout the forest, but so far not a single body was found.

The evidence seemed to point to a potential death at each spot, but at the same time, it appeared that after a time, the person, whoever it was, simply got up and walked off!

"He could just be injured."

"With that much blood loss, John, he wouldn't get back up."

John bit his lip and slumped down in his armchair across from Sherlock. "Okay. So maybe someone's dragging the bodies away."

Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back. "No. The tracks clearly suggested that the victim got up on his own..." Jumping forward, Sherlock climbed on top of his chair and began scribbling something on the ceiling.

John frowned. "Uh, Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"What are you doing?"

"There's this bit on the ceiling. Bothersome. Keeps putting me off."

John's brow crumpled. "But doesn't coloring a massive black mark of it make it more distracting?"

Sherlock jumped down and capped his pen. "Of course not," he replied. Sighing, Sherlock paced the room. "It could be several people. Perhaps he's injured and covered with the blood of someone else… but why?" Sherlock threw his hands in the air. "What's the point?"

Suddenly the phone rang.

John and Sherlock both dove for it and the phone clattered to the floor and skidded under the couch. "Drat it, Sherlock." John shouted, "I _had_ it!"

"It's not _my_ fault! _I'm_ the one waiting for Lestrade's call!"

"Well it's _my_ phone!"

Sherlock and John both stared at each other for several seconds before John finally sighed. "Fine. Whatever. I'll grab it, you lift the couch." He bent down and turned sternly to Sherlock. "Don't you _dare_ drop it on me."

Sherlock frowned, moving to lift the edge of the couch. "Why would I do that? John, if I was going to murder you, it would be in a much less detectible manner."

"You can shut up now, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Just lift the bloody couch."

Sherlock obliged with a roll of his eyes. "Got it?"

"Almost…" John grunted. "There!" Pulling back, he held the IPhone up in triumph. John stood and quickly tapped in Lestrade's number. Waiting less-than-patiently while John called, Sherlock absently bit his thumbnail.

John's eyes flicked to Sherlock's. "Yeah. This is John… What? Really? Yeah… Yeah, I'll tell him… hang on a second, le'me get a paper." He raced across the room and then paused. "Actually, uh, Sherlock?" He turned to his friend. "Remember this."

Sherlock focused his attention.

John nodded rapidly, phone still on his ear. "Alright. O424… April Street… West London. Behind a shed near the woods."

Grabbing his coat, Sherlock shrugged it on and raced to the front door. "Got it. Let's go!"

~(%)~

Sherlock's fingers were cold in the frigid weather. It was depressingly wet outside and wisps of cotton clung to the streets and lampposts. Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, Sherlock moved toward the body. "Make everyone leave, John." He murmured.

The dead man was of average height and was graced with an attractive countenance. He was smiling, something Sherlock found odd after being shot in the heart… twice. Bending down, Sherlock inspected the body. It was the first one found, and the police were going to great measures to make sure it didn't 'disappear' like the others.

Blood caked the young man's forehead and fingers and his army-style, navy blue coat was stained with it. Sherlock bit his lip and began examining a small puddle of blood near the victim. Was it the same blood found at the other crime scenes? Standing up, he turned away to inspect the back wall of the shed. A bloody handprint was slammed on the white wood, evidence that the man ran behind the shed to hide.

There was a shifting of clothes and a grunt from behind Sherlock. "Nice coat. Very mysterious. I'm Jack. You are?" Sherlock was so involved in his work that he was _almost_ startled when he heard the voice.

"Working," Sherlock replied automatically. He sighed inwardly. "I _told_ John to make everyone go away!"

"Haven't the faintest who 'John' is," Jack replied, "but I'm sure he's a great fellow. You are a lucky man."

Sherlock groaned inwardly. Why did people ALWAYS assume that he and John were some sort of couple? "John's married, actually, and despite what everyone seems to think, I'm straight, an attribute you seem to lack."

"Just a bit." This 'Jack' shifted his weight and chuckled.

Sherlock sighed. The man didn't seem to get the message, 'go away'. Quickly, Sherlock turned to face the man.

He froze. His logic sparked and went haywire.

Jack wasn't someone wandering up on the scene. Jack _was_ the scene.

The body that used to be on the floor now stood in front of Sherlock, living, breathing, and smiling mischievously. Jack tried to run a hand through his hair but cringed when he saw the blood on his fingers.

"Drat it," Jack muttered, "my favorite coat. I don't have money to dry clean this thing again. I've already done it three times this week..."

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock was speechless. Flabbergasted. Shocked.

"Wh-"

Glancing up, Jack shot the detective a sympathetic look. "You must be examining my murder, which makes this just slightly awkward, me being not dead and all." He paused. "Well, I _was_ dead, but not anymore. It's complicated."Jack sighed. "I really should try to clean my mess up if I get killed more than once a week. Stuff keeps happening though and I don't really have time..."

Sherlock's mind raced, attempting to come up with a reasonable explanation. "You couldn't have been dead... I must have missed something..."

" 'Fraid not, mister-?"

"Holmes." Sherlock murmured. "So it was you who left all of those blood stains?"

"Yup."

Sherlock's brow crumpled like paper. He tapped his foot impatiently. "I don't believe you."

Jack laughed. "Of course not. Why would you?" He grinned widely. "Look, I'll cut you a deal. Cover for me, if God's on my side you'll never see me again. Do that and I'll tell you how I do it."

"Do what? Come back to life?" Sherlock snorted, but considered the man's 'deal'. He didn't believe the man could come back to life, but he wouldn't mind hearing his story. Honestly, Sherlock cared more about solving the mystery than turning the man in.

"Alright..." He said slowly, "tell me and I'll think about it."

Jack shrugged, dried blood flaking off his coat. He didn't seem bothered in the slightest. "Good enough for me."

He smirked. "It all started when I met this hot babe during the London Blitz."

~(%)~

Shaking his head, Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away from the shed. What a ridiculous tale. He didn't believe it for an instant, but points to the man for an interesting story Sherlock could think about when he was bored. Blue boxes, time travel, and bad wolves… how strange...

Moving toward the crowd of people clustered against the cold, Sherlock locked eyes with John. John stepped away from the crowd and gripped his coat tighter. "So? What did you find?"

"Well he's an obsessive narcissist and has quite a long list of lovers..." Sherlock searched his mind for more information. He needed to stall long enough for the mysterious man to get away and someone else to discover he was gone.

"He's in good shape, used to running from danger. Possibly a soldier of some sort-"

"But how did he die?" John asked.

"Two shots to the chest. Hit his heart. Twice."

"Ouch."

"It's unfortunate."

Suddenly a shout rang throughout the small courtyard. An intern stumbled away from the shed, eyes wide. "He's gone!" The young man shouted.

John exchanged a glance with Sherlock and both of them raced off to see.

Sherlock went through the motions, pretending to be shocked by the disappearance of the man. Acting was one of his best abilities, and no one thought to suspect the detective of anything.

Except... John perhaps.

They got into the black cab a few minutes later, destined for Bakers street. Without a body there wasn't anything they could do. John stared at Sherlock silently.

"What?" Sherlock finally asked.

John shrugged. "It's just an odd thing, a body that won't stay put..."

"I agree." Sherlock wasn't lying.

John frowned. "Did you figure out the bloke's name?"

Sherlock turned to John, an expression on his face that John couldn't decipher. "Jack Harkness."

"How do you know?"

"He told me."

John blinked. "... You're joking right?"

Sherlock sighed. Back to acting... "Yes, John. Of course."

They lapsed into silence, both listening to rain pattering on the windows and splattering the streets of London in a tuneless symphony.

AN: Please REVIEW! I don't usually write One Shots.


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